


These are the days that bind you together, forever

by Musicandjason



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge, Sexytimes, Texting, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musicandjason/pseuds/Musicandjason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post Series 2, Sherlock is floundering a bit, but Jim has always been able to pull him out of a rut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And these little things define you forever, forever

**Author's Note:**

> Story title comes from the song Bad Blood, by Bastille

Sherlock had meant to throw out the piece of paper that had Jim from IT's number on it, and he had meant to delete the messages that Moriarty had sent. But something in that masterfully functioning brain just wouldn't let him do it. The paper had yellowed slightly, and some water had bled the ink a bit, but it didn't matter because it was memorized anyways. 

The numbers floated around inside his mind, along with the things he would have preferred to tell Moriarty before he had blown his brains out on the roof of St Bart's. He would have loved nothing more than to sit down and have tea with the Consulting Criminal. Sherlock wanted to see what made him the way he was. To see how similar he was inside. To perhaps even see some feeling behind those black pools of nothing. 

He had spent lots of time, staring at the illuminated screen of his phone, wishing that things could have been different. But he knew that was a foolish thought for anyone, and was absurd who someone who was as brilliant as he was. Sherlock logically knew that he would have done the same thing to complete his master plan. But he would have had a number of back up plans that didn't include painting the roof of the hospital in blood. 

Since that day, the hours had been boring but not terribly unpleasant. Simply, stating alive would have been the most apt way to describe it. He'd done some lovely reading, and an experiment that involved. A lot of spare thumbs. They had taken him weeks to nick from the morgue at the hospital. 

There had been no cases that had even warranted him opening his computer, let alone getting dressed to leave the flat. Currently, he was lying in bed, in silk bed pants and no shirt. He was wrapped in the white bed sheet and hadn't moved in approximately 26 hours. He could smell the oils collecting in his hair, but couldn't be bothered to care. He had no one to impress. No one to challenge him. No one was even on his level. 

His phone pinged softly on the desk across from his bed, but Sherlock didn't even bother to look up, or open his eyes. John would inform him if there had been a case that would warrant his attention. 

His phone sounded a second time, and this time it has annoyed him into answering it. He carefully untangled his limbs from the sheet, and reached just far in front of him that he was able to wrap his long fingers around the phone. He then slumped back against his pillows and thumbed at the screen 

Come and Play, Sherlock JM

The initials at the end made his breath catch in his throat momentarily, before his brain had been able to kick back in and reason that Moriarty was dead. He had seen him swallow that bullet. He had seen him lying on the ground, with dark and viscous blood pooling under him. 

Sherlock, it's impolite to ignore someone...especially someone like myself. JM

Sherlock's face froze in anger. Someone was doing this to him. And it was very inconsiderate. Jim Moriarty was dead. And that's all there was to it. 

Kindly Fuck off, thank you very much. SH

That's no way to speak to me, Sherlock. I came back from the dead for you. JM

Sherlock's anger was boiling over at this point. The normally calm detective was sitting bolt straight in bed, both hands grasping the phone tightly. He was struggling to keep himself in check and his breathing was hurried and ragged. Even the thought that Moriarty was alive was bone chilling. He hit the call button on the screen and waited for the call to connect.

“Hello?” A lilted Irish voice answered when the call connected, and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat for a second time. It sounded just like him. A quick memory flashed in his mind, of the last time Moriarty had said hello. Or Hi, more specifically. It had echoed around the empty pool like it had been a cave.

”Well, aren’t you a cunning fox. How did you ever manage to copy that foolish accent?”

“Sherlock, I’m hurt. How could you ever think that anyone could imitate little old ME?” The last word was spat at him in a way that immediately knocked him back to the last time he had seen Moriarty. On the roof, after being told that there was no key. Moriarty’s yelling hadn’t phased him, but to hear the harsh tone seared his mind.

“But...how?” Sherlock’s mouth gaped open in a rare thoughtless moment. His mind was racing through the options, but there just weren’t any that could explain how he was on the phone with his arch nemesis once more.

“Oh, Please! Do you think that you’re the only one who could fake their own death? Besides, how could a world with Sherlock Holmes exist without Jim Moriarty?” The laugh that came quickly after those words erased any doubt or confusion about the identity of the person on the other line. Sherlock hung up the phone, not ready to deal with any of this. The phone hung untouched in his hands, like time had stopped. He replayed the rooftop situation in his mind over and over, but saw no way out. 

His phone pinged again only second’s later.

Don’t tell your pet, or you’ll never hear from me again. And you don’t want that. We’ll make beautiful music. JM

Sherlock didn’t type a response, instead he quickly got up out of bed, and got dressed. He left his bedroom, and looked around the flat until he was able to find John, and then dragged John out of the flat as quickly as the Doctor was willing to go with no explanation, and no real case to follow. They hung around the yard until they were able to find something that held their interest, although it was hardly a five, and certainly didn’t warrant the famous Sherlock Holmes. Either way, the woman whom had been mugged by a homeless man was overjoyed that he had helped her find the criminal.  
That had thankfully taken him all day, and once the sun had gone way down, Sherlock had made the choice to return to the flat. John had gone to see Mary, so he was returning with some takeaway that he would likely not eat and a yearning to go to bed. 

No sooner had his scuffed, nondescript shoes stepped over the entryway to 221B Baker St, then his phone pinged softly.

Welcome home, Darling. JM

Sherlock’s eyes darted from side to side, trying to determine what, if anything had changed. What had moved. Where was the dust disturbed. Dust never lied. Suddenly he saw it. There was a slick substance, like someone had wiped their fingers on the floor. If Sherlock moved his head to an angle, he could see it streaking from the doorway and down the hallway. He followed it, and found that it went directly to his bedroom door. Thankful that he has been home alone, he put his hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. He knew that what was on the other side of the door would not be good. Or Healthy. Or Safe.


	2. All this bad blood here, won't you let it dry?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this is starting out slow, but the next chapters are where all the magic happens :)

Sitting on the bed, in a perfectly tailored, deep blue Westwood suit was Jim Moriarty. His dark eyes stared forward, directly in front of him, and at nothing in particular all at the same time. His hair was dishevelled in a way that Sherlock had never seen before and his hands were clasped loosely with his elbows resting on his knees. “Hello, darling.”  
“Jim,” Sherlock stated as he sat down on the chair that accompanied the ancient desk that sat in his room for the last several years. “To what do I owe this break and enter?”  
Jim smiled, in a way that only he could, and strode over to Sherlock, driving his hand into the side of Sherlock’s face in the most serious slap that Sherlock had ever been a part of. Jim’s face switched from a smile to a sneer, as he leaned it so that his mouth was grazing Sherlock’s ear. “I missed you…maybe I even missed our games.”  
"I may be mistaking, but normally when you miss someone, the first step is not to assault them..." Sherlock's voice had trailed off as of the words just stopped flowing from his brain to his mouth. Jim was just staring at him, onyx eyes boring holes into Sherlock's own. Sherlock seemed unable, or just unwilling to look away from the face of the Consulting Criminal. Despite all the intensity in his eyes, the rest of Jim's pale face almost looked lifeless; slack skin hung carelessly on angular bones.

"The word you said in error was normal," Jim made air quotes with his small, nimble fingers not letting his state waiver an iota. It was a wonder to watch the fine fabric of the suit move with Jim's motions. It was obvious that the money spent was worth it for him, as every motion made him look like a million bucks. "But neither of us are normal. We both saw fit to fake our own deaths, now didn't we?"

"I suppose that's correct...but that still doesn't explain why you're here, now does it?" Sherlock broke the gaze finally, putting his long fingers carefully on Jim's chest and pushing him back forcefully.

Sherlock was sure that things like this didn't always look like poetry in motion, but they did this time. Jim fell back slightly, but as he did so in a way that made it look intentional. Once he had regained his balance, he flattened out his hands and smoothed them over the suit front. Everything had to be just so.

"Now, now...play nice, darling." Jim was starting to appear annoyed at the conversation and took something quickly from his pocket. Sherlock couldn't make out what it was, but Jim has his fingers wrapped tightly around it. He lunged forward and before Sherlock had anytime to react, him had sprayed a mist into his nose.

\----

Sherlock opened his eyes very slowly. As he regained full consciousness, he tried to remember what had happened last. His eyes widened as he remembered the saccharine smell, and the motions of a madman. He also realized that he was tied down. No, tied down was right, he reasoned. He was shackled. There were cold leather cuffs restricting the motion of his arms and legs. Although they were fairly forgiving as far as shackles.

After realizing what has happened. Sherlock listened intently to the ambient noise in the room. He could hear a train in the distance, and judging from the audibility of the sound, probably about a mile away. He could also hear the faint coo of pigeons. Perhaps near a park? Somewhere where birds congregated for sure. A lake, or even a body of water. He couldn't hear anything else of importance, other than the central heating pumping hot air into the room.

He then moved on to looking at the actual room. It was no longer his bedroom at the flat. He was lying on a bed with what he would estimate was 600 thread count Egyptian cotton bedding in a deep blue colour. The actual bed was high off the floor; the type that would need those ornate wooden steps to get in and out of.

The room itself was ornate was well, filled with dark wood that smelled of furniture polish and plush carpet that looked luxurious. Two windows were located on the walk directly across from the end of the bed. But he could see nothing out of them as they were dark blackout curtains.

It was at this point that Sherlock realized that all of his clothing had been removed, save for his tight, black boxer briefs. He quickly scanned over his skin, and realized that he had not been harmed. Quite the opposite, his skin had a pleasant scent, as if someone had rubbed lotion all over him.

"James!" Sherlock yelled in anger. He repeated the name? Over and over, until his voice was hoarse and could taste blood in the back of his mouth.

"Please...Jim" he pleaded quietly; pathetically.

The door in the hallway opened in a flourish, and Jim Moriarty walked in. He had removed his suit jacket, and looked quite smart in a best complete with fob watch. Sherlock noticed immediately that the sheets matched his suit. "You called, my dear?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in anger. "I have been calling you for ages! What took you so long?"

James pursed his lips and came a few steps closer, stopping to the right of the tall bed. He reached his hand out tentatively and stroked the top of Sherlock's foot. "My name is not James. You know me as Jim. My name is Jim."

Sherlock looked confused by the gentle touch as much as by the name preference. But he didn't pull away from the touch. "Jim, why am I here?"


	3. If we're only ever looking back, We will drive ourselves insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things start to get a bit intense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not becoming what I originally wanted it to, but I still think it's pretty solid! Hopefully you guys do too!

“Why are you here, Sherlock? Use you beautiful brain for just one minute…” Jim trailed his fingers slowly from the top of Sherlock’s foot, up to the crest of this thigh. It caused a slight shiver all the way from Sherlock’s toes to his ears. He did his best not to show the reaction. Jim’s fingers stopped there, and danced in tiny circle on the pale flesh. A second shiver coursed through him. He was not enjoying that sensation at all. “Now, why in the world would I want the only man in the world who has ever challenged me, tied to a bed in his underpants?”  


“You…want to sleep with me?” Sherlock looked flabbergasted at the simplicity of the idea. It was possible, he reasoned that his intelligence was alluring to Jim. Other people had expressed interest in his looks before. Molly, for instance. But there was no way that Jim just fancied him for his muddled curls and pale skin. Jim also knew that it was of no interest to Sherlock so perhaps that’s why Jim felt like he needed to tie him to a bed and force the issue.  


Sherlock solely looked up at where Jim had been standing, and he did not like what he saw. Jim had gone blank. It seemed almost as if the living part of him had been drained away. His eyes looked black and lifeless and his mouth had fallen slack around his teeth. And he was holding a sparkling silver Beretta in his hand. It was not pointed at him currently, but the fact that it made an appearance unnerved him.  


“Oh Sherlock. Do you remember her? Last time you saw her she was giving me a French kiss. I suppose you could have even called it a last kiss. I thought maybe she had served her purpose. I had even given her to Sebastien, But I got her back. The thought that she could reunite us again was too good to pass up.” Jim’s voice was quite quiet and even a bit vacant, but it didn’t stop him from raising the gun to his own face, letting the metal rest against his skin.  


Sherlock was strangely mesmerized by this motion. He could almost imagine the feel of the cold metal against his own flushed skin. His mind was lost in that thought, and that was the only explanation as to why he didn’t see the next motion coming. That hard metal of the Beretta smacked into his cheek with violent accuracy and force. The blow forced his head back painfully. In a rare moment he was confused and disoriented. He blinked his eyes several times before everything came into focus.  


After the first hit, Jim had leaned on the bed, heavily breathing. His face was finally starting to show some signs of feelings, with a wide smile playing across his lips. With some effort, he climbed onto the bed and straddled Sherlock’s hips.  


Sherlock looked carefully at Jim, constantly assessing the situation. He had always been sure that Jim would try to kill him, and that they would probably end each other, but he was not sure this is how it was going to go. He could feel Jim’s hard on pressing into his thigh and it only further confused him. Why was this arousing Jim? Why was hurting Sherlock making him hard?  


When the second hit from the handgun came, he was much more prepared. It hurt just as much, but Sherlock was able to tune out the pain. “Jim…”  


Jim proceeded to lean all the way forward, so that his body was flush with Sherlock’s; their lips only millimeters from touching. The feeling of the fine fabric, and even the chain from the fob watch was very strange on his skin, as all his pain receptors were already so sensitive. “You stole my thunder Sherlock Holmes. Somehow, no one cared that I was dead! All they cared about was darling Sherlock Holmes. And that he hadn’t been lying. I didn’t work that hard just to fade away! I don’t mean to hurt you. I want to love you. I want to have you. Every part of you, in every way.”  


Jim’s eyes burned figurative holes into Sherlock’s pale skin and it was very clear that only one man was enjoying this. Sherlock could definitely still feel Jim’s dick hard against his leg, but his own was still completely soft and uninterested, as it always was. Sherlock’s body was tensing against his restraints, trying to find a bit of weakness that he knew very well Moriarty hadn’t left. He did his best not to move his crotch towards Jim’s, because he didn’t want him to think that he was interested. Once he was sure that he exhausted all his trajectories he gave up; letting hid body go slack under the light weight of the smaller man.  


Jim sat up just far enough that there was a gap between their chests. He reached carefully, albeit awkwardly towards his ankle. Sherlock craned his neck at a painful angle to see Jim reach into an ankle holster and produce a long, sharp knife. The blade was seven inches long and polished; delicate looking, with an ivory and wooden handle. Sherlock tried to discern brand or model, but it was apparently a custom job. Sherlock was not surprised.  


Jim held it comfortably in his left hand, while the fingers of his right hand were still loosely grasped around the Beretta. He looked like the finest instrument of destruction that Sherlock had ever seen.  


“Jim, I have no interest in any of this. What are you trying to do? Please, stop.” Sherlock made very deliberate eye contact in which he tried to feign as much fear as possible. In reality, he was concerned, but if he was going to die by anyone’s hand, it might as well be his only equal, so he felt very little fear.  


“Of course you’re not interested! Why else do you think I would have you tied to the bed? For someone so smart, sometimes you catch on so slowly.” A glint of the maniacal Jim Sherlock has seen on the roof of St. Barts. He had moved his hand which was holding the knife up so that the cool blade was resting against his hot skin.  


Sherlock sensed that if he was to move too quickly, or at all, his blood would be spilled. “So, you mean to rape me, James?”  


Jim’s eyes went wide and he pushed down on the blade just a little bit more. Sherlock could feel the sting of the blade, but was sure it hadn’t broken the skin yet. “MY NAME IS NOT JAMES! I HAVE TOLD YOU TO CALL ME JIM! And, if I meant to rape you, I would have done it by now. I want you, but not against your will. I want you to want me back.” He gave a lewd roll of his hips to get his meaning across even more, in case Sherlock wasn’t able to understand.  


"You can't have me in that way. I have no interest in affection, let alone the physical sort." Sherlock was suddenly weary to even breathe too hard. The blade was puckering against the skin of his abdomen more and more, and any second the edges of the cut would burst apart and blood would pool on his pale skin. The idea of that didn't exactly scare him, because he didn't think that Jim would let him die. That reasoning kept looping over and over in his mind. Jim would not hurt him. Too badly, at least.

"You'll learn to love me, Sherlock. Or else." Jim pressed the blade down the final amount required, and blood began to pool in tiny beads then fell in crimson rivulets onto the blue bedding. Purple stains began to spread on either side of his body. Jim did not look pleased. "Now we'll need new sheets!"

Sherlock, ever the logical man was surprised how non existent the pain is.. Still, a strangled scream escaped from his mouth. It was unlike him to be so outwardly upset about something he couldn't control, but his body wasn't reacting the way it normally should.

Jim lifted the knife up and repositioned it just above Sherlock's lowest rib. He continued to stare at Sherlock fiercely, while he dragged the knife purposefully over the skin, causing a cut much deeper than the first. Sherlock stilled this time, and although there was still no pain, he sensed things were becoming much more dire.

"I'll teach you how to love me, Sherlock. Whether you like it or not. We will be one. Unstoppable." With that, Jim moved off of Sherlock, and off the bed completely. He laid the knife down on a table on the opposite side of the room along with the beretta. Carefully, ensuring that he had no blood on his hands, he smoothed out his suit so that nothing was amiss. He glanced briefly in the mirror to make sure no hairs were out of place. "If you're good, someone will come tend to your wounds."

And he left. Sherlock watched him open the door and close it in a flourish, and then he heard a second door open and close, so quickly after him had left, which could have only meant that he had gone into a room next to his own. He listened more carefully and was surprised at what he heard next. He heard Jim groan in what he could only assume was pleasure. Although he had never taken part in it himself, Sherlock had watched pornography exactly twice in his life. The noises that he was hearing definitely fit the scope of those situations. Sherlock held his breath again, listening to Jim raise his voice and shout swear and random words. Sherlock was sure it was a mistake, but he could have sworn one of those words had been his own name.

Sherlock wondered if Jim was touching himself, or if he had someone else locked in another room. A strange image flashed in his mind of a young man on his knees in from of Jim mimicking a scene from a porn he had watched. He assumed it was self-pleasure, as he doubted Jim would have been so uninhibited if anyone else was there.

Once the noise Jim was making had stopped, it was deathly quiet. The silence brought Sherlock back to his reality at hand. He was bleeding from two long cuts in his abdomen. He didn't think they we're life threatening, but they were certainly starting to hurt. Jim said someone would come tend to him though.

He retreated to his mind palace, and freshened up on his astronomy (John would be so pleased) while he waited for someone to show up.


	4. As the friendship goes resentment grows, We will walk our different ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is confused by what is going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, when I started this fic, i was determined to write a fic where Jim hurt Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't like it. It's proving much harder than i thought it would be. But i think i have it all figured out and it should wrap up in the next couple chapters.

Sherlock raised an indeterminate amount of time later, in what he assumed was the night because of the pitch darkness. He realized quickly that he was not tied up anymore. His skin where it had been cut was feeling tight, and when he reached down with his fingers experimentally, he found the gashes were covered in rough gauze. He could also feel that the skin had been knit back together with stiff twine. Once the room was illuminated he would have to check it, but it appeared that he had been good enough to be taken care of. He must have been dead to the world for someone to be able to stitch him back up without his knowing. Or he had been sedated.

“How did you sleep, darling?” Jim’s thick Irish lilt crooned from directly next to him. Sherlock started so severely that it caused him severe pain around his wounds. The fact that Jim was that close to him put every sense and nerve in his body on high alert. 

“Jim. Why are you in bed with me? “ Sherlock’s voice dripped with incredulity, despite the fact that angering the smaller man was not a good idea in such closed quarters, and truth be told, he preferred this to the previous situation. “Thank you for untying me though.”

“You’re welcome, Honey. I didn’t want your legs to get tired. And the photo that I got to take of you curled up, clutching my pillow was too good to pass up.” Jim had moved closer now, and basically purred the words directly into his ear. He could feel Jim’s warm breath on his ear, and could smell the high class Whiskey on it too. 

“Can we please turn on the light?” Sherlock completely ignored the statement about the photo, aware it was meant purely to bait him. Jim probably had hundreds of photos of him in compromising situations; the one of him sleeping would be no different. Aside from the fact that Sherlock was in the criminal’s own bed.

The light flicked on, plunging Sherlock into temporary blindness. Once the spots cleared from his vision he saw Jim lying in red with him, red sheets and blanket resting low on his hips. He was not a prude about body parts, and he had to admit that Jim had a toned body. Any sexually motivated person would find him attractive for his body, if not his mind. But that was all Sherlock saw. No pajamas. No underwear. Nothing. His hair was mussed from laying down on one side. It was cute. He looked human. Harmless. Like a beautiful tropical fish waiting to strike. 

“Better, Sherly?” Jim gave him an easy smile and laid back down, careful not to jostle Sherlock. The care that Jim was showing to Sherlock was almost disarming. He had never seen this side of him before. 

“Yes, thank you. Is this your own room?” Sherlock surveyed the room carefully, and it looked much more lived in that his own had. He could see Jim’s clothes carefully folded in a pile on an ornate looking chair, with the McQueen tie on top. He also saw a giant mirror mounted on the wall above a dresser. On top of the dresser, there were a lot of grooming tools, and there was even a surprising photo of a scrawny kid with dark hair, with his arms around a giant fluffy yellow dog.

“It is. I felt bad about the way I had treated you. Thought you might be more comfortable…in my world. I realized that I was treating you like a business associate. I want to treat you like my equal.” Jim closed his eyes and made as if he was going back to sleep.

“I do care for it far more than our previous arrangement. But Jim…I think we should probably talk about this? You can’t force me to stay here.” Sherlock turned his body slowly, careful to stretch or pull the stitches, and pulled himself into a sitting position, so that he was facing Jim. He took a deep breath and inhaled the warm scent of the smaller man. It seeped into his brain and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. This man, for all the bad in the world he had caused, or perhaps in spite of it, was beginning to feel like home. 

“I’ve not keeping you anywhere anymore. The door is unlocked now. You can leave if you want. I don’t want you to be a prisoner. Call it a change of heart.” Jim didn’t even bother to open his eyes as he was talking, like this would be the end of the conversation.

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked repeatedly, then laid back down. He wondered what exactly was going on with Jim. Yes, he was self-professed as changeable, but this was drastic. This was also the first time he had slept in the same bed as anyone other than Mycroft. He didn’t know what was appropriate. He crossed his arms across his own chest and hugged himself tight.

“Sweet dreams, Sherlock Holmes.” Jim’s voice was distant and sleepy. Jim had chosen not to invade Sherlock’s personal space, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if it made the situation more or less dangerous.  
Sherlock didn’t answer; he just closed his eyes and went blank. Sleep alluded him for a little while, but eventually slumber gathered around him like a haze and held him tight.

xxx

The next morning, Sherlock woke with a start. He had rolled over suddenly, and pulled on his apparent stitches. The sting of the two cuts burned brightly for a short moment, and then faded away. Sherlock slowly sat up, and rubbed his eyes. Jim was sitting next to him in black sweat pants and black socks; no shirt. “Good Morning Darling.” He crooned softly in a gentle voice. It heightened the always present Irish lilt, but also made it sound a little bit…off.

“Jim. At your earliest convenience, I need to talk to you about our situation.”

“Give me about ten more minutes Sherly. I’m just emailing a Serbian business man about some…business. While you’re waiting, I’ll have someone come and change your dressings.” Jim picked up his phone and typed a quick message before putting it back down on the bed. His eyes hardly left his laptop and Sherlock imagined this is how he did a lot of his work. At his own leisure; nothing and no one forced Jim to so anything.

Sherlock merely nodded, and waited for someone to come attend to him. It was probably only two or three minutes when one of Jim’s goons ran in, with fresh gauze, tape and tea tree oil. The act of pulling off the existing tape and gauze had been the least pleasant of sensations, and hurt more than the slicing of the flesh had initially. The Goon dabbed the tea tree oil across the stitches and it stung slightly. Once it had dried a bit, the hired help smoothed the gauze over the cleansed cuts. 

Once he was all bandaged, Sherlock turned to look at Jim. He was all hard lines and dark hair, which was an interesting contract to Sherlock’s own hard lines and lighter hair. Jim snapped his laptop closed as soon as Sherlock was looking at him and set it carefully on the bedside table. Sherlock didn’t think that he could possibly be done all the criminal work for the say, so he was happy he took a break to speak to him. “I want to apologize for how I treated you. I let my hormones get out of control.”

Sherlock was still very suspicious of the soft, pleasant demeanour that Jim was putting forward. Jim did everything on purpose. “Thank you for that. I have been thinking about it, and I think that shortly, I would like to take my leave and go back to Baker. I just can’t imagine myself engaging any sort of sexual relations. “

“I’m more than happy to pretend if you will reconsider staying, Sherly.” Jim gently took Sherlock’s hand in his own, and laced their fingers together. There was a small pressure on Sherlock’s palm, where Jim was pressing his thumb gently. “Now, you need to more rest. Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock felt a small prick on his arm and looked down quickly enough to see the same Goon who had changed his dressing injecting him in the arm with something. Sherlock’s mind slower to a crawl, but he was still able to realize that he was being drugged before his eyes closed in involuntary slumber, with his hand still wrapped around Jim’s.


	5. It's been cold for years, won't you let it lie?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's mood swings are starting to give Sherlock whiplash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this fic, it started as something much different than it has ended up. It was, in the beginning, going ot be a fic about abuse and pain, but ended up as something more like misplaced caring and confusion of feelings and actions. I hope that doesn't bother anyone too much, or at least not more than it bothered me. 
> 
> Comments or Crit are more than welcome, and there's only one more after this!

Sherlock came to consciousness several minutes before he was willing to open his eyes. Mostly this was because of the searing pain in his abdomen which he found basically unbearable. It burned through his belly and into his chest, searching for any available receptors overload with pain. He flexed his hands and feet to ensure that there was no permanent damage done while he was out, and luckily, they felt perfectly fine, if not a bit tingly from the lack of circulation from the blood in his veins.

He cracked his eyes open to find that he was back in “his own room” again. All the lights were off, so like the other times, it was impossible for him to discern what time of day it was, or how long had passed. What he could tell was that he was sitting up, with his hands bound to either side of the bedframe, and stretched just a small bit beyond what was comfortable. His legs were unbound, and currently crossed to support his sagging body.

Sherlock halted all thoughts of his body, and how it felt, and began trying to actually use his brain. He needed to get out, and he had no idea how to do that. It was odd for him to be at such a loss, but when up against your intellectual equal, it was hard to be surprised about. He could think of no way for him to get his hands free without someone letting him go. Judging from the pain he was feeling. His wounds had likely been cut open in hid drug induced slumber as well. That complicated things an extra bit, as he would have to be careful about blood loss. He moved his midsection experimentally, and the pain was so severe that he knew moving without any medication would not be an option.

“Jim! Jim, please come! I think I need your help!” Sherlock rose his voice only slightly, because he knew that Jim had the whole room bugged, and he was most definitely on video. He briefly imagined Jim sitting in front of a computer screen, watching him sleep. It was unnerving. He resigned himself that he would call only once, and then he would just wait. No one, not even Jim Moriarty would make Sherlock beg for help. Sherlock struggled to focus on anything, and after a good deal of struggled he managed to start tapping out a random piano part to an inconsequential classical song with his foot. It had always been Mycroft that played piano, but it was much more difficult to mimic the violin.

And he waited. He could feel the blood drying on his wounds, and he knew that they needed attention as soon as possible. He was beginning to feel dizzy, and realized that however long he had been held captive, he did not recall eating. He didn’t know exactly how long it had been or even when he had eaten last before he had been taken. It did just never seemed to be important in daily life. A waste of time. 

Sherlock closed his eyes slowly, and tried not to focus on the churning in his belly, or what felt like cotton in his brains. “Jim, Please…”his voice sounded weak and defeated. He hadn’t thought that it would take Jim so long to come to his aid. In whatever altered state that made Jim the way he was currently, he was strangely caring. He hoped that letting the actual feeling of his voice out was help draw him out.

And draw him out, it did. Sherlock heard the door knob turn, and his eyes snapped open to see Jim stride in, completely naked, and aroused. It gave Sherlock a chance to look at his body in depth, while he was just standing there. He was short, but not stocky, with a wisp of dark hair on his chest. There was a thin line of dark hair that led from his belly button down to a nest of curly hair that framed his privates. His shoulders were strong looking, and his back was muscular. In comparison to his own, Jim’s dick appeared to be about the same length, but quite a bit thicker. Sherlock took a moment to ponder what that meant, but promptly realized he had no idea.

“Sherlock, are you alllrriigghhttttt?” Jim drew out the last word in a way that made his Irish accent quite annoying. Sherlock had always thought that the accent was interesting; a bit strange for the posh criminal mastermind to have such a common accent. But that was just Jim, a bit strange for a criminal mastermind.

“No Jim, I’m not alright. I’m tired, hungry and quite possibly bleeding to death. Plus, I don’t have any idea what’s going on anymore.” Sherlock got to the point quickly, as her was irritable, and honestly was bred out of irritability. Jim’s face dropped slightly, just for a second and then the façade fell back into place. The consulting criminal flexed his fingers wide, and then fisted them tightly.

“Oh, where are my manners? I’ll get you something to eat right away. And, depending on how things go, I’m sure I’ll be able to get someone to get someone to stitch you up.” Jim walked fully into the room, and slammed the door almost violently. His phone was in his hand from God knows where, and he concentrated on that for a few seconds before lying it down on the empty dresser. “Someone will be along shortly, with some food.”

Sherlock merely nodded, and closed his eyes again. He didn’t reopen them until he heard the door open timidly. A different lackey than the previous one came in with a dinner tray, and set it down on the bed next to Sherlock. The detective was not exceedingly hungry, and his stomach had gotten to the point that it alternated from rolling with uncontrollable nausea, to completely satisfied with not having any of the sustenance that body required. And aside from that, he was restrained at the wrists. “Is someone going to untie me…or?”

“Oh darling, I’ll help you out with that.” Jim strode across the bedroom, and sat on the side of the bed. He picked up the bottled water, which had a label that simply read ‘water’ and put it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opened his dry lips and accepted the water. Jim didn’t stop pouring until half the bottle was gone. He set the bottle back down on the dinner tray and took a second to run the back of his index finger along Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones. Jim sighed happily.

“Do you think that you can stomach some toast, honey?” Jim picked up a browned piece of bread, and spread some orange marmalade on it. The motions were meticulous, making sure that the sticky liquid was spread across all areas of the exposed surface.

Sherlock thought about it for a few moments. His stomach was doing a flip flop, but the water was staying put for now. He nodded sharply, and opened his mouth for a second time to the madman. Jim gently put a corner of the toast in his mouth. He repeated the motions over and over until he was satisfied that Sherlock had eaten enough.

Once Sherlock had finished most of the pieces of toast, and a small serving of cooked oats, Jim got up off the bed and took the tray of food with him, handing it to the lackey and waving him away. Through all of the seemingly caring motions that Jim was taking part in, he somehow managed to keep his raging hard on. Sherlock assumed that Jim was getting off on seeing him vulnerable, and getting to take care of him.

“Sherly, you must be thoroughly confused about everything that’s been going on in the last 48 hours, am I right?” Jim’s small hands were resting on his hips, and he almost looked a bit childlike if it wasn’t for his cock, completely hard and fully erect, glistening slightly on the tip. Sherlock tried to look anywhere but directly at his arch nemesis’ dick, but the look of it, in a straining and obviously painful state was distracting. 

“I’m beginning to become con-“ Sherlock was cut off by a sharp hit from Jim, with what appeared to be a whip. The hit caught Sherlock across the front of his thighs and immediately the skin became angry and red. Sherlock sucked in a violent breath, and pushed it out just as quickly. This was repeated twice more to try his best to keep him calm. 

“I didn’t ask you to talk. A simple nod would have been just fine. I know I said that I could be happy pretending that I could have you, and I even held your hand so sweetly. I lied. I need all of you, Sherlock.” Jim flipped and flopped between subjects like somehow the Consulting Detective was supposed to know what was going on in that warped brain of his, but in truth Sherlock had no idea what was going on in that labyrinth of insanity. Sherlock looked deep into his eyes, and admitted to himself that he hadn’t seen them look like this since the first time they met, in the pool room where Jim had said he would burn him. The concern in his slower than usual brain was heightened as Jim moved towards him holding the whip in one hand, and running his other hand up and down the length of his penis. Precome smeared throughout as he did so.

Sherlock shoot his head violently in reply, apparently learning his lesson very quickly. Jim, on the other hand, seemed to disagree and brought the whip down in a second attack, hard against his abdominal muscles. Instantly the spots that held hardened blood from his stitches being cut open erupted in fresh crimson. It beaded and ran down his pale flesh, creating a gory scene almost instantly. Sherlock briefly imagined what this bed and room would look like as a grisly crime scene that DI Lestrade would have to walk into. A homicide. He put those thoughts out of his hid head as quickly as it had popped in.

“As I’ve told you and your pet before, I’m quite changeable. I guess you could say this is one of those changeable moments. “Jim ran the end of the whip up to Sherlock’s neck, smiling the whole time. “So what do you say Sherlock? Will you be my boyfriend?” 

Sherlock was beginning to have troubles controlling his mind and body. His breathing was wrecked, and he didn’t feel like he was getting enough oxygen to his brain. He forced that same oxygen deprived brain into deduction mode, and tried to figure out the best way to get out of this situation alive and as intact as possible. He didn’t really like the idea of surrendering himself all the way over to the madman, but he didn’t think he had much choice. “Oh yes, please Jim. I’m yours.”

Jim jumped briefly with glee, and threw away the whip in a way that meant he had no caring for the device of pain and torture. He was suddenly very concerned and careful of where Sherlock was bleeding, as he crawled carefully into Sherlock’s lap. How convenient it had been for him to restrain him sitting up. Jim ground his buttocks down onto Sherlock’s still soft cock, and stifled a shameless moan before it made it out of his mouth. “I think I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I love you too, Jim.” Sherlock almost choked on the words, but he thought that under the circumstances they sounded believable. That was all he could have hoped for. Jim had obviously thought the words were completely believable, because he stared at Sherlock with dark eyes, filled with what Sherlock assumed was lust.

“You won’t regret this, I promise.” Sherlock frowned at the words. He had been almost positive that Jim would have lost interest if there had been no game to it. He had figured that consent would seem so ordinary to Jim. It was the classic ‘people want what they can’t have’ motive. But apparently he had been wrong. And now he would have to suffer for it.


	6. And you said you always had my back, Oh, but how were we to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climax and culmination of Jim's insanity, and Sherlock's rationality. With an appearance late in the game of Mycroft Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my attempt at "intimate times." Mostly, I try to stay away from writing things like this, because i don't think i'm especially good at it. But For Jim/Sherlock, i'll make the effort. Any help or pointers would be amazing!
> 
> xoxooxx thanks for all the kudos and reads, lovlies.

Jim snapped his fingers loudly, and the door opened quickly. A burly man stuck his head in the room. He was broad shouldered, with a crew cut and hands that look like they could have easily crushed Sherlock’s throat. “Sebastien, bring me the medical kit. I need to take care of Sherlock, before I…take care of Sherlock.”

The door remained open while Sebastien was gone, and Sherlock got a first look at the hallway in the house. It looked old. Not run down the way Baker St. did, but old. The wainscoting separated the bottom half of the wall which was a deep maroon, from the top half, which was a white paper with deep blue pinstripes. It didn’t give him much to go one, other than it was well taken care of. He imagined that there were likely lots of houses just like this one in London, if he was even in London still.

Sebastien walked back into the room with a cliché silver tray of medical equipment and laid it down next to Jim, on the bed. Jim shoo’d him away with a hand motion and no words. Sherlock briefly wondered what it would be like to have someone so devoted to him. He quickly decided that he didn’t want blind allegiance. He did enjoy having someone bend to his will, but he liked a bit of sport in it. He picked up a syringe full of clear liquid and grimaced. “This is going to hurt…”

Sherlock merely nodded. He prepared to take the pain, and pain there was. Jim carefully pushed the needed through the dried blood and directly into the cut. He repeated this three more times, until he was satisfied that the anesthetic had taken hold. He put the syringe back down on the silver tray and picked up a wet cloth. He dabbed the cloth on the cut until all of the dried blood was cleared away from the garish cuts that he, himself had caused.

“All frozen?” Jim asked in a soft voice. When Sherlock nodded Jim nodded as well. He picked up the scissor like tool and grasped the needle with the points of it. Sherlock had never seen him concentrate so carefully and look so serious. He realized that Jim must have been the one to stitch him up in the first place, and he was just as sure that he had been the one to slice through those threads and reopen the wounds. His proficiency in stitching did surprise Sherlock a bit, as he was under the impression that Jim never got his hands dirty, but he was thankful none the less.

The stitches were over and done with fairly quickly, as Jim was skilled and Sherlock didn’t dare move. Once it was complete Jim wound gauze around Sherlock’s waist and secured it with those tiny silver barbs that always accompanied the bandages. Jim got up and took the tray over to the empty dresser and laid it down. He quickly walked back and climbed carefully back into Sherlock’s lap/ he reached over to where Sherlock’s wrists were secured, and he unlocked and freed both of them. “Can’t have you unable to touch me can I?”

“I should think not…Daddy.” Sherlock again choked out the words that he knew Jim wanted to hear for all of this to be over quickly. Sherlock gently rubbed at his wrists while he watched as Jim closed his eyes briefly at his favorite moniker and smiled. He leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

“Now, my love, I want to consummate our relationship. Does that sound amenable to you?” Jim continued to kiss across Sherlock’s cheek and down to his thin neck. Without waiting for an answer, Jim began to kiss and suck, leaving deep marks, and groaning softly against Sherlock’s skin. The blood was thrumming through the veins against Jim’s lips and Sherlock wasn’t sure it was entirely unpleasant. Sherlock had a very basic understanding of what needed to happen for the situation to proceed correctly, so he screwed his eyes shut and forced a soft moan out of his mouth, hoping that it would be satisfactory. He also mimicked a motion that he was sure Jim would enjoy, rolling his hips up into Jim. He was still quite soft, but was beginning to feel his body react to Jim’s ministrations.

Jim reacted very well to his motions, trailing his lips from Sherlock’s neck down to his small nipples, where he took turns tweaking them with nimble fingers and running his warm tongue across them. It was then Sherlock’s turn to respond, rolling his hips up for real this time. “Ohhhh…Sherlock, I can feel you!”

Sherlock had been resolute in his decision to keep his eyes shut. But he was beginning to think that maybe it would be better for his reactions if he made more eye contact with those dark eyes that bored holes into him. He opened them slowly and looked down at Jim who was currently kissing his way down his abdomen and slowly towards Sherlock’s crotch. But his eyes were fixed on Sherlock; dark pools of lust burning a hole into him. it was almost as if the stare was searing his pale alabaster skin. Sherlock sucked in a shaky breath and carted his fingers through Jim’s hair. Jim growled at the eye contact and smiled the most devious of smiles.

“I’m going to suck your cock Sherly. Is that okay with you?” Jim smiled against the skin of Sherlock’s stomach, carefully kissing against the Gauze that was wrapped around the cuts that he had only just stitched up a second time, and covered. It was still frozen, so there was no pain for Sherlock, but when Jim looked up at him after, the detective’s breath caught. Jim has a small smear of blood on his lip. From the cuts that he had inflicted, and then stitched up, then cut open again, and then stitched up. Sherlock hadn’t realized that he had been bleeding through his dressings, but he was suddenly not as concerned about it as he should have been.

Sherlock’s heart skittered to a stop and then a violent restart and he felt a stirring in his genitals. Jim must have felt the twitch of his cock too, because he reached down and wrapped his perfectly manicured fingers around the base of Sherlock’s mostly hard dick and closed his lips around the tip. It felt a little bit strange to have someone’s lips on that part of his body, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The eye contact got more and more intense as Sherlock watched Jim’s mouth move down the shaft, to meet up with his nimble fingers were grasping and hollowed his cheeks.

And with that Sherlock, or at least Sherlock’s body was fully invested in the situation. He could feel his cock filling out in Jim’s mouth and it was becoming less awkward and more just…enjoyable. He let out a stiff groan and thrust his hips suddenly, slamming the tip into the back of Jim’s throat. The Consulting Criminal sputtered momentarily and pulled off to catch his breath. “Darling, I know you’re new to this, but it is terrible impolite to try and choke your boyfriend while he is pleasuring you.”

Sherlock frowned slightly and feigned a bit of a shrug, as really, he had no idea what was polite in that situation. Jim gave him a quick smile, one that was kind and gave Sherlock a warm feeling in his stomach and resumed bobbing his head in Sherlock’s lap, sucking a little harder and flicked his tongue to run the tip along the slit firmly. This elicited another moan from the so-called non sexual Sherlock, but this time Jim held his hips down this tip so that he couldn’t fuck his face. Sherlock gripped roughly on Jim’s shoulders and encouraged a faster pace. Because of his inexperience, he was very quickly approaching a feeling of what he assumed was climax. Jim pulled off quickly for a second time.

“Do you want to come in my mouth? Or across your own stomach?” He purred out the words, while he was busy kneading his fingers in the supple flesh of Sherlock’s thighs, which felt oddly comforting.

Sherlock truly had no idea which he preferred, but as he thought about it for a second, he concluded which he though Jim would enjoy, and that was what mattered in this situation, despite the fact that he was enjoying it in some say. Besides, he didn’t really enjoy the idea of ejaculating all over his perfectly wrapped wounds. “In your mouth, please.”

A low growl came from deep in Jim’s throat and he wasted no time in taking Sherlock in his mouth and bobbed his head furiously. Sherlock was very quickly losing control, and couldn’t quite bring himself to care about it. He was thrusting lightly into Jim’s mouth, careful not to choke him again, purely because he didn’t want him to stop. If Jim was honest about it though, he loved it and would do whatever it took for Sherlock to get closer to taking what his body needed. And he was giving it to him. Sherlock needed Jim, and Jim knew it. Nothing was more dangerous that knowing that you were needed.

Jim was pulled from his reverie by Sherlock making a choked noise, and gripping his shoulders so tightly that Jim was sure he would have bruises the next day. That was the only warning Jim got, as a not so familiar bitter taste flooded into his mouth and he struggled to swallow it down. This was the first time that Jim had ever given a man the choice to come in his mouth, and honestly he hadn’t enjoyed it. But it was Sherlock, and he was always the exception.

Once he was done licking Sherlock’s dick completely clean, causing a few soft moans from the taller man. He sat up slowly and surveyed his partner carefully. Sherlock was breathing heavily, and still had his eyes fixed on Jim’s face, even as it moved. “Are you alright, Sherlock?”

“No, I don’t think that I am. This was a mistake. I want to leave. I feel disgusting.” Sherlock moved his legs from either side of Jim and pulled them up in front of his chest. His closed off posture was a shocking hit to Jim. Jim has just given him his first orgasm, and even let him come in his mouth, but now he was too busy sulking to even say thank you?

“Sherly, it’s not polite to not reciprocate oral sex, even if it is your first time.” Jim’s tone went from concerned and caring, to cold and unfeeling all in the space of once sentence. He turned his eyes away from Sherlock and got off the bed. His erection bobbed as he walked over to the dresser and picked up his android phone, typing out a quick message. “I need to go take care of this. Goodnight Sherlock.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he meant the situation on his phone, or the raging erection that was left untouched, but either way Jim had opened the door and left, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock stared for a long moment at where Jim had been standing. He was mildly confused about how his normally controlled feelings had changed so quickly inside him. One moment he had been enjoying himself and the next he was feeling so sick with himself for making such a mistake. He needed to get out of where he was. He looked down and checked his wounds, to find that they were only bleeding a little bit, and had only bled through in the place that Jim had kissed.

Sherlock carefully looked around the room for something to cover his exposed skin with, but all he was able to find was a night robe which was deep blue, with silver trim. He got up slowly, a bit unsteady after little food and his first orgasm, and walked over to where the robe was and put it on. The he listened. And he heard nothing. Not a sound. Perhaps this would be his chance. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Jim would just let him walk out the door, but maybe everyone would be occupied with other things. He had a flash image of someone, maybe Sebastien, on his knees in front of Jim, doing his service. Sherlock very quickly shooed that image out of his mind. It didn’t matter what they were doing, as long as he had time to get away.

Sherlock opened the door slowly to ensure no noise came from it, and looked into the hallways. He took a tentative step outside the room and no security system went off. Not that he knew of at least. He maneuvered the rest of his body carefully so as to continue moving silently. He was just about to turn the corner when he heard a creak of a foot on the floorboards behind him. Sherlock turned as quickly as he could, but not quickly enough to be able to avoid the hand that closed over his mouth with a cloth in it. He inhaled something bitter out of surprise, and help himself slipping away.

“Goodnight, Sherlock…”

XXX

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in his kitchen after a very long day, in which he had been responsible for talking every important person in the British Government down off the proverbial ledge. That had meant up at 5AM, breakfast, lunch and supper meetings, as well as having his desk phone and mobile attached to his ear on a semi-permanent basis. He had even been forced into a squash match with the Minister of Defence, in order to speak with him about a concern he had. Now though, he was taking solace in the two things that he truly adored in his life; red wine and decadent chocolate mousse cake.

He had just dipped the delicate silver dessert fork into the gorgeous cake when his doorbell echoed through the house. It sounded like something out of a Century long since passed, which Mycroft supposed was why it fit in so well in his house. Everything was stately, and nothing came without a legacy, including himself. But what gave him concern was that no one ever rang the ornate bell located to the left of his heavy wooden door, because no one knew he lived there. In his position of secretive power, he had to be very careful about who he let into his inner circle. That’s why that circle was currently empty. He couldn’t think of a single person that he would trust enough to come over for dinner, let alone with his life.

The Elder Holmes brother got up quickly, grabbing a gun out of his nearby drawer. The 9mm Walther P99 looked out of place in his long frail hands, but he was very familiar with it. It had been in the aforementioned home for every moment that he had lived there, and had been a gift from the Prime Minister himself. Quarterly tests over the last few years had proven that he was very familiar with it, and even fairly proficient. He walked silently to the door, and peered through the peep hole. No sign of anything.

Mycroft made the executive decision to open the door, despite the threat of anything from a crouched down gunman or a sniper, to a dirty bomb waiting to blow shrapnel into every available square of flesh. His security advisor would have his head for not being more careful, but that was a stern argument he could have at another time. At the end of the day, Mycroft Holmes made his own decisions. The door swung open slowly, and the tableau that unfolded as it did took his breath away. There was no gunman, or bomb. Just his little brother, unconscious and splayed across his front step. Sherlock was wrapped in his signature jacket, and not much else. He had a plain black pair of boxer briefs on to cover up the essentials, but everything else, including his long slender feet were bare.

He leaned down and hastily checked Sherlock’s pulse. It was there, thrumming under his skin, and quite steadily at that. He allowed himself a second to relax before he gathered his frail brother’s body in his arms and took him inside. The strain of carrying him, no matter how slight he was became a momentary welcome distraction from the combination fear growing in his mind. Who had done this, and how had they known where he lived? There was a short military clearance that knew, but that was all.

But what Mycroft could have seen if he had been observing was two houses down, a silver Mercedes-Benz parked, with no tinted windows. The liscence plates on the car had been stolen earlier in the day, and the car was registered in the name of a woman who didn’t exist. There was a slight man in the back, with slicked back black hair. Once Sherlock had been taken inside, the car slowly drove away. Jim was satisfied in knowing that he had delivered his lover into careful hands.

Sherlock was lain carefully on the deep red chaise lounger and almost looked as if he was just sleeping peacefully. Mycroft was talking hurridly on his cellphone, trying to find a doctor who could come to his home, and not breach his confidence. Normally that wouldn’t have been a problem, but this time he was not interested in getting Queen and Country involved. He had to find someone he could trust, not someone who trusted the Government.

But the second thing that the ever observant Mycroft Holmes failed to notice that night was a note, stuffed into the lapel pocket of a jacket that had become synonymous with Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes,

Please find your brother, slightly used and gently sedated so that I could get him to you safely.

Fondest Regards,

JM”


End file.
